


Graven In Stone

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Durin Family, Durin Feels, Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no one else Kíli would trust to tattoo him than Dwalin.  Or Kíli gets his first tattoo and there's a great heaping side dish of banter, Durin family feels and dwarf meta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graven In Stone

There are reasons Kíli's so grateful that Dwalin is his uncle's best friend: Dwalin took him for his first ale, told him the sorts of stories his mother and uncle avoided (yes, he had nightmares but he liked the scary stories all the same), taught him to swing a sword and all the best curses (and both he and Fíli got him into trouble for that one but Dwalin never held it against them) and a whole host of other things. Dwalin's never treated them like children (or wee badgers, as he prefers, even now if he's well in his cups getting nostalgic) and whenever they've wanted to do something and have gone to him, he's sat them down and they've talked through it. Kíli's not sure why it's sometimes just easier to explain it to Dwalin than to his mother or uncle, or even Balin who by all rights is the thinker between him and Dwalin but it just is. Maybe because Dwalin gets to the heart of the matter, bludgeons through or looks for weaknesses, looks at things like a warrior, not a mother or a king or a scholar. So when Kíli says to him that he wants to get a tattoo, Dwalin claps him on the arm so hard he chokes on his ale and says he's obviously got some sense if he's coming to right dwarf. Dwalin is Kíli's first choice because he's heard the stories about Dwalin's tattooing abilities when he's had drinks with other warriors and he knows that Dwalin's good at picking out what he likes, how to tell a story on his skin. Kíli knows how as dwarves they carry their legacy with them always because it makes them, that they are stone and iron, clay and jewels, silver, gold and mithril same as they are flesh and bone, that they were made to be strong same as they were made to be jealous in all their rights. Kíli lives with a family where his mother and uncle keep their beards shorn short to mourn their people and to show that those who are meant to carry and protect them, to provide for them have not forgotten what was lost. It's why, upon finding out the reasons for it when they were starting to first grow their proper beards in place of the soft fuzz upon their cheeks, that he and Fíli vowed to do the same. It seemed only right. Fíli's braids are not a beard but they're something so no one says too much and Kíli bandies around a line about archery that's actually rather true – he's let his beard grow more when he's been hunting and hasn't had time or the proper supplies or even the inclination and it catches.  
  
He never says anything about the mourning in public. It's no one's business but his own and that of his family. Besides, he doesn't know how to put into words the mourning of a home he has never known, that pull between all that's been familiar from birth and all that he has to picture from the songs and stories of kith and kin.  
  
(There's one other reason he chooses Dwalin, it's ridiculous and Fíli being the shit he is teases him mercilessly over it at any given moment, is that if he, very much hypothetically, cries, it'll never get out. Oh he'll be ribbed for it but it'll stay a secret, just between him, Dwalin and his brother.)  
  
They go to Dwalin's home, shared with Balin who's off doing some sort of trade agreement type thing with their uncle – Fíli's meant to know the details but he admits that he sort of drifted off and nodded and Kíli was busy with Glóin who was blathering on in great detail about money and swords and probably something related. Thorin will quiz them and sigh and lecture them but he's already admitted once that he and Frerin and their mother were just as bad, if not worse, at their age. It's a large place as befitting someone of noble blood because dwarves are nothing without their tradition even if Kíli doesn't understand why some need such elaborate dwellings if this isn't home but the time he brought it up he was given every awful chore for months and told that tradition matters even more than it did before. He understands, it's just hard to swallow when he sees so many struggling still to make ends meet. But he remembers the look of hurt mixed with haunting on his uncle's face and was so taken aback and ashamed that he didn't argue over the punishment. Instead, he donates coin when he can, does some smithing for free, drops off meat and pelts to those who are in need. He doesn't talk about it to anyone really – Fíli's usually there because they're Fíli and Kíli, never much more than a few feet from the other and because Fíli donates coin and hunts alongside Kíli anyway – but he feels like he's doing the right thing.  
  
"Right lads, come in," Dwalin greets and promptly hauls them in by their coats, shoving them through (not offering them biscuits because Dwalin is a greedy bastard and has a biscuit addiction, Kíli's sure of it), "Kíli sit down, shirt off and have a wash."  
  
"Mister Dwalin," they both say together as soon as they get a chance, shrugging out of their coats to dump them on the nearest chair because you don't need as many manners around Dwalin, just the right amount of respect.  
  
"Didn't think you knew what a wash was Dwalin," Fíli says getting a muttered curse and a shove for his cheek.  
  
"Last time you were round mother thought we'd left rotting meat out," Kíli continues even though very shortly Dwalin's going to be stabbing him repeatedly with a needle and inking a design into his skin. Kíli doesn't always think through what comes out of his mouth. Dwalin sighs and points to a bowl of steaming water and soap, then to Kíli who plonks himself down, hauling his shirt off as he goes. It's actually rather awkward seeing as it's his back so he slings the cloth at Fíli who yelps.  
  
"What did your last servant die of?"  
  
"Me ramming a rag down his throat for not scrubbing my back," Kíli answers with mock sweetness. Fíli rings some of the water out over Kíli's head as Dwalin just sighs and shakes his head, still, Fíli dutifully scrubs Kíli's back with the hot water as Dwalin scrubs his own hands, rolling up his shirt sleeves. No matter how many times Kíli sees him with his knuckledusters and the clothes that look more like armour, he'll never quite get used to it. Dwalin's not a small dwarf by any means but without all of that, he definitely seems less imposing, more like the eccentric uncle he so often was to them in their youth.  
  
"I spoke to your mother-"  
  
"You what!" Kíli's voice comes out as a broken, mortified screech as he leans forward, gripping the table as he stares at Dwalin in horror. This was meant to be his big decision – he's an adult (or thereabouts), he goes on hunts on his own, he has some duties, token though they might be, he works the forge with Fíli more than Thorin does so it's his choice to have a tattoo, not something he needs permission for.  
  
"It's my balls on the line here lad if your uncle or Mahal forbid your mother takes exception. She'd kill you quickly, she loves you. She'd kill me slowly and painfully and in public and she'd bloody beard me first." Kíli can't really argue with Dwalin's logic. Middle-Earth have no fury like a mother enraged, doubly so if she's a dwarf. Still, Kíli frowns (Fíli'd say pouting but he has dignity and Durins do not pout past the age of fifteen) because his dignity and pride are a little bruised. "Don't worry, she said it was your choice, your regret if you did something stupid and- ah, you know how your mother is."  
  
"I know, I know. And I understand."  
  
"So you're still sorted then, know what you want? No cold feet?"  
  
"No, I know what I want, just like we discussed."  
  
"And you know it'll hurt."  
  
"D'you not remember him limping back on a broken ankle for miles after a hunt that went wrong?" Fíli chips in because that's what brothers do, Kíli turning to grin at him.  
  
"Aye, aye I do." Dwalin pauses then and the brothers look at each other, then him, then back to each other.  
  
"Dwalin?" Kíli asks and that seems to jolt him out of his reverie.  
  
"Been around here with Balin too long," he mutters, getting what he needs lined up, "turning as soft as that belly of his."  
  
Fíli snorts and Kíli shakes his head. There's a fluttering hand gesture that says 'daft old bugger' from Fíli and an agreeing response from Kíli, all done so quickly that Dwalin doesn't catch them.  
  
"Right princeling," and Dwalin only calls him that to try to get a rise out of them, to make them puff themselves up. "No blubbering or I boot your arse out the door."  
  
"I'm not going to cry Dwalin, I'm not a child."  
  
"I've seen bigger dwarves than you sobbing for their mothers before the needle even touches them."  
  
"It's actually a big needle Kíli," Fíli says, wandering around the table to peer at the instruments, "d'you want to see it?" He has his smuggest grin on his face.  
  
"Only if I can shove it a couple of places you don't like."  
  
"Can we get on with this before I go grey?" Dwalin interrupts and Kíli takes a deep breath, swallows and nods.  
  
"I'm ready."  
  
"Famous last words," Fíli sing-songs but there's concern in his eyes and he takes a seat opposite Kíli so he won't be in the way, holding a hand out that Kíli takes gratefully. After all, a younger Kíli did the same when it was Fíli getting his first tattoo, watching in awe as his brother bit his lip, grunted and breathed hard through his nose but didn't cry out. Kíli's going to do the same but he's glad his brother's with him for support.  
  
He doesn't flinch at the first press of the needle, just sucks in a breath, breathing the way he does when he's got his bow in hand, a long deep breath filling his lungs, holding it for a count then exhaling only instead of imagining an arrow loosing, he's pushing away the pain that's surely to come. Dwalin is efficient, Kíli'll give him that, wiping away ink and no doubt blood as he goes, the lines across Kíli's upper back taking shape. Kíli knows these runes by heart the same as any dwarf should and he's seen variations on others. He knows for example that his mother has dates upon her skin, when she met their father, when she birthed Fíli then himself, the many dates she lost someone dear, others for protection in childbirth. Those are the ones he's seen. Thorin's tell his story – his place among their people, their family, lines for good judgement and protection, to bless and guard a warrior, marks for their bloodline, different to people and to family. The names of everyone he held dear and has lost and for those he holds ever closer now – Kíli remembers touching his name (the true name, the name only dwarves will ever know) when he was very small, pudgy fingers somehow knowing that he had to be careful. Fíli has protection marks, a mark for brotherhood, for a warrior – blades and hammers. Kíli can feel arrows being made, a blade too and there are marks for fortune and swiftness, clear vision and an identical mark for brotherhood.  
  
"Regrets?" Fíli asks but there's no doubt in his eyes as Kíli grins back even when he feels the burn of Dwalin's needle close to his shoulder.  
  
"None whatsoever," he replies, gritting his teeth.  
  
When it's done and he's bandaged up, Dwalin hands him an ale, giving Fíli the instructions for looking after it seeing as Kíli can't exactly reach (and Kíli already knows because their roles were reversed the last time) and claps him on the arm.  
  
"You did well," he says over his mug and Kíli grins even though he's feeling a bit wobbly right now. The ale will settle him as well as the biscuit Fíli snagged for him, "I'm proud of you, both of you, you badgers know that, don't you?"  
  
They could be little shits, tease him, say he's definitely getting old and soft in the head. Instead Kíli carefully reaches out to knock his tankard against Dwalin's, his brother doing the same. "Course we do," he begins.  
  
"And we always aim to make you proud too," Fíli finishes.  
  
"You're good lads," Dwalin says then drains his tankard. "But don't let it go to your heads." They laugh together and Kíli thinks how glad he is that his life is what it is, family, friends and almost-not-quite-uncles who tattoo you and then get sentimental over ale and biscuits in their brother's kitchens.


End file.
